Two years passed.
They were, without exception, the dullest two years I, or, I venture to
say, any watch made, ever spent. There I lay, run down, tarnished and
neglected, on the pawnbroker's shelf, never moved, never used, never
thought of. Week followed week, and month month, and still no claimant
for me came.
Other articles on the shelves beside me came and went, some remaining
only a day, some a week, but I survived them all. Even my friend the
chain took his departure, and left me without a soul to speak to.
None of the hundreds of tickets handed in bore the magic number 2222,
which would have released me from my ignoble custody, and, in time, I
gave up expecting it, and settled down to the old-fogeydom of my
position, and exacted all the homage due to the "father of the shop"
from my restless companions.
My place was at the end of a long shelf, next to the screen dividing the
shop from the office, and my sole amusement during those two dreary
years was peeping through a crack and watching my master's customers.
They were of all sorts and all conditions, and many of them became
familiar.
There was the little girl, for instance, the top of whose bonnet just
reached as high as the counter, who, regularly every Monday morning,
staggered in under the weight of a bundle containing her father's Sunday
clothes, and, as regularly every Saturday evening, returned to redeem
them. It was evident her respectable parent did not attend many evening
parties between those two days, for I never remember his sending for
them except at the regular times.
Then there was the wretched drunkard, who crept in stealthily, with now
a child's coat, now a picture, now a teapot; and with the money thus
raised walked straight across the road to the public-house. And there
was his haggard, worn wife, who always came next day with the ticket,
and indignantly took back her household goods. There was the young
sailor's wife, too, with her baby in her arms, who came rarely at first,
but afterwards more often, to pawn her few poor treasures, until at
length a glad day came when the brawny tar himself, with his pockets
full of cash, came with her and redeemed them every one.
I could tell of scores of others if I wished, but I have my own life to
record, and not the transactions of my master, the pawnbroker.
One day, towards the end of the first year, the door opened softly and
quickly, and there entered into the office a youth, haggard and
reckless-looking, whom, I thought, surely I had seen before. I looked
again.
Was it possible? Yes! this was none other than Tom Drift! But oh, how
changed! A year ago, erring and wayward as he had been, he was yet
respectable; his dress was the dress of a gentleman; his bearing was
that of a gentleman too; his face had been naturally intelligent and
pleasant; and his voice clear and cheerful. But now! There was a wild,
restless roll about his eyes, a bright flush on his hollow cheeks, a
dulness about his mouth, a hoarseness in his voice, which seemed to
belong to another being. He was dissipated and seedy in appearance, and
hung his head, as though ashamed to meet a fellow-being's look, and,
instead of one, looked at least ten years older than he had.
Such a wreck will evil ways make of a youth! He looked eagerly round,
to see that no one but he was in the office, and then produced from his
pocket a scarf-pin.
"What will you give me for this?" he whispered.
The pawnbroker took it up and turned it over. It was a handsome pin,
with a pearl in the front.
"Ten shillings," said the pawnbroker.
"What!" exclaimed Tom; "do you know what it's worth?"
"Ten shillings is all I can give you," curtly replied the pawnbroker.
Tom gulped down a groan. "Give me the money, then, for goodness' sake,"
he said.
The pawnbroker coolly and deliberately made out the ticket, while Tom
stood chafing impatiently.
"Be quick, please!" he said, as though fearful of some one detecting him
in a crime.
"Don't you be in a hurry," said the pawnbroker.
"Here's the ticket."
"And the ten shillings?" broke in Tom.
"You shall have it," said my master, going to his drawer.
To Tom it seemed ages while the silver was being counted, and when he
had got it he darted from the shop as swiftly as he had entered it.
"That fellow's going wrong," muttered the pawnbroker to himself, as he
laid the pin on the shelf beside me.
I recognised it at once as having often been my companion on Tom's
dressing-table at nights, but I myself was so discoloured and ill that
it did not at first know me. I was too anxious, however, to hear some
thing about Tom to allow myself to remain disguised.
"Don't you know me, scarf-pin?" I asked.
He looked hard at me. "Not a bit," he said.
"I'm Tom Drift's old watch."
"You don't say so! So you are! How ever did you come here? Did he
pawn you?"
"No; I was stolen from him one night at the music-hall, and pawned here
by the thief."
"Ah, that music-hall!" groaned the pin; "that place has ruined Tom
Drift."
"When I left him," I said, "he was just going to the bad as hard as he
could. He had broken with his best friend, and seemed completely--"
"Hold hard! what friend?" interposed the pin.
"Charlie Newcome, my first master; they had a quarrel the day I was
stolen."
"That must be nearly two years ago?" said the pin.
"Just," said I. "Do tell me what has happened since then."
"It's a long story," said the pin.
"Never mind, we've nothing else to do here," I said encouragingly.
"Well," said the pin, "the night you were lost Tom never turned up at
home at all."
"He was utterly drunk," I said, by way of explanation.
"Don't you interrupt," said the pin, "or I won't tell you anything."